Days
Days
Days pass like a Hastily put bed-sheet The struggle at the corners A makeshift solution
Recurring and mundane Yet extempore every time No one to reprimand I bet it bothers you
The nagging instinct To at least make it look good It’s you, after all Who’s gonna sleep on it
Yet you lie down, every night Until the day, the wrinkles Become annoying, and The filth unbearable
Then comes a Sunday You open the closet Only to find out, all of them Are grey.
Posted May 29, 2022, 7:29 AM UTC
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